"Healing. A minor one should do." Zevlor's deadpan stare doesn't waver, but after Rolan leans forward, so does he, resting one elbow on the counter. "Whatever do you mean? I'm merely trying to get information about your stock. I assure you, I have the coin."

Listen, even if he were still bound by his Oath, the Creed Resolute never forbade the Hellriders from lying. "It's a fascinating place, this store. Tell me, all these constructs, these elementals...summoned by master Lorroakan himself? The armor too, animated by his hand?"

If so, the man has power to burn; small wonder Rolan hoped to learn from him. Unfortunately, Zevlor's urge to seek him out and do him bodily harm will have to go unfulfilled. Even at his full strength, with the divine gifts of a paladin, it would be a tall order to face a wizard like that alone. Besides, Rolan's not entirely wrong. It's presumptuous of him to walk in here and act like he has a right to offer the other tiefling any kind of protection or service.

"You're fortunate to have the work. You, Dammon, Lakrissa...you have a right to be in the city, unlike the rest of the dregs camped in Rivington. Your employers grant you that." His gaze is unblinking. "For as long as you serve their interests."

"Meanwhile, those of us who haven't been put to use are cluttering the streets. You should hear how the righteous citizens of Baldur's Gate talk about us. It's like Elturel all over again, except the resentment isn't merely for tieflings; it's for everyone without a home and a master." His lips curl into a pained smile.

"Funny how history repeats itself, isn't it? None of this is under control. Not yours, and not mine."